Julian stared at the phone long after it stopped ringing.
Vivienne Ashcroft.
The name pulsed in his head like an echo he thought he had buried years ago. He hadn't spoken to her in months. Not since the last shareholders' gala when she smiled like a queen and whispered threats behind champagne flutes.
He set the phone down, face-down, and walked to the bedroom door.
Clara lay curled beneath the covers, back to him. She didn't speak when he slipped in beside her. Her breathing was slow but not quite steady. Not quite asleep.
He didn't touch her. Just lay there, watching the faint glow of the moonlight brush her shoulder.
"Clara," he whispered, voice low and uncertain.
She didn't respond.
He deserved that.
And so, he lay in the quiet with her and the distance he had created.
Morning came like glass—bright, brittle, and too sharp.
Clara was already up when Julian walked into the kitchen. She was making coffee. Not for two. Just for herself.
"Good morning," he said.
She slid him a glance. "Is it?"
Julian exhaled. "She called. I didn't answer."
"I know."
"She's not important."
Clara turned, finally meeting his eyes. "She is if you don't tell me why she's calling."
Julian didn't flinch, but the truth hovered behind his teeth like a loaded weapon.
"She's part of the firm's past. My past," he said slowly. "And she's not someone I ever wanted you to deal with."
"So why is she back now?"
Julian hesitated. "Because someone is stirring up the past. And she's the kind of woman who thrives on other people's destruction."
Clara leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. "What does she want?"
"Power. Leverage. Me, maybe. At least the version of me she thought she could mold."
A pause stretched between them.
"Are you going to tell me everything?" Clara asked.
Julian nodded. "After my meeting today. There's something I need to confirm first."
She didn't press. Just sipped her coffee and said nothing more.
But Julian knew the silence was louder than any accusation.
And as he left the house that morning, his phone buzzed again. This time, not from Vivienne.
It was from Ethan.
"Sir, you need to see this. It's everywhere."
Julian tapped the link.
And what he saw on the screen made his blood run cold.
The headline blinked up at Julian from the screen like a weapon aimed directly at his chest.
"Billionaire's Secret Marriage and Heir? Clara Wynter Exposed."
Underneath, a blurred photo of Clara stepping out of a cab. Another of her leaving Blackwell Tower. And worse, one from months ago—her hand resting on her lower stomach in a moment of absent tenderness.
Julian swiped through the article with growing fury. They named her. Implied everything. Accused nothing directly, but the comments were already spreading like wildfire. Threads, reposts, speculation.
Who is Clara Wynter?
Was this a pregnancy trap?
He was engaged to Vivienne Ashcroft—what happened?
Gold digger energy.
He closed the tab before the bile reached his throat.
Ethan's message came again.
"I think Vivienne leaked it, sir. Or someone close to her. Marcus has been calling too. The board wants a meeting."
Julian's jaw tightened. His chest rose and fell in slow, measured control. He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he turned and walked to the edge of the parking garage where the city stretched wide and cold beneath him.
This was his fault.
He had known this world. Know what it did to people like Clara. He had kept her in the shadows, thinking it would protect her. But secrets were never safe. Not in his world.
At home, Clara's phone buzzed again.
And again.
She ignored the first few.
Until Harper called. No text. A call.
Clara answered it on the third ring.
"You've seen it, right?" Harper asked, no preamble.
"Yeah."
"It's already trending. Clara, I am going to kill someone."
"I'm fine," Clara said softly, though her hand was shaking.
"You are not fine. Julian is probably storming boardrooms and burning down PR firms. Do you want me to come over?"
"No. I need a moment. Just… tell me what's the worst of it."
Harper hesitated. Then answered honestly.
"People are going through your old posts. They found your author blog. Someone shared that picture of you reading to kids at the shelter and twisted it into a campaign."
"A campaign?"
"Yeah. 'Blackwell's secret saint,' or something sarcastic. It's gross. There are memes."
Clara rubbed her forehead.
"And Vivienne?"
"She hasn't said anything, but her brand's PR team just released a vague statement about 'privacy and healing.' It is so obvious she's trying to play victim."
A quiet sigh.
"Okay," Clara said. "Thank you."
"You are not alone in this. Got it?"
Clara nodded even though Harper couldn't see her. "Got it."
But as she hung up, her reflection in the darkened phone screen told a different story.
A woman standing in a world that suddenly knew her name. For all the wrong reasons.
Julian arrived at Blackwell Tower with a storm behind his eyes.
The boardroom was already full. Faces turned when he entered. Some with concern, most with calculation. Marcus Lang stood near the far end, his suit immaculate, his expression carefully schooled into something neutral.
"Gentlemen," Julian said, voice clipped. "Before you open your mouths, I'll remind you that this company is mine."
Marcus gave a thin smile. "And yet public image affects all of us, Julian. You've always known that."
"Public image will recover," Julian replied. "It always does."
Another director leaned forward. "This isn't just about press. Investors are nervous. Our European partners want statements."
Julian's knuckles tapped once against the glass table. "They'll get them. From me."
"And what about the wife?" Marcus asked, emphasizing the word.
Julian's stare was ice. "Clara stays out of this."
"That's no longer possible, is it?" Marcus said. "She's in it now. Fully. There are rumors about the baby. About how this marriage happened. If she speaks, they'll listen."
"She won't speak," Julian said.
He hoped.
He turned, the meeting already ending in his mind. He would handle this. Just like he always did. Damage. Control. Containment.
But as he stepped into his private office, he froze.
On his desk sat an unmarked envelope.
He opened it slowly, heart hammering.
Inside, a photograph. Black and white. A much younger version of Julian's father. Standing beside a boy with the same eyes.
Julian's breath caught. This was not him. But the resemblance was undeniable.
And beneath it, a single handwritten line:
"You think secrets start with you? Ask your mother what she buried."
He stared at the photo until his hands trembled.
Downstairs, Clara stepped out of the elevator, unaware of the letter waiting above. But her phone buzzed once more.
This time, from a number she did not recognize.
"You don't know him like you think you do."
She stopped walking.
The glass doors ahead showed her reflection, no longer just a woman with a secret, but someone walking into the heart of a storm.
And neither of them knew that the past had just started bleeding into the present.